


Lending A Hand

by skarletfyre



Series: The Learning Curve [3]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout gets some friendly advice and decides to take a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lending A Hand

The room was dark. All the lights had been off for hours and there was a new moon hidden in the overcast. The sky was black, and the base was quiet, save for Scout's soft, muffled little moans.

His face was turned to the side, half buried in the pillow, lower lip pinched tightly between his teeth. There was no real fear of being overheard. The walls were sturdy concrete and the doors were reinforced steel, a bit of added security against the unthinkable. But Scout wanted to be quiet. Just to see if he could. To keep the illusion alive.

His strokes were slow and rough. He gripped himself tightly, and with the belt cinched around his bicep he could pretend for a while – until the pins and needles set in – that it wasn't his hand.

It was Medic's.

That's what he imagined, behind his eyelids in the dark, the doctor's stolen, bloodstained tie wrapping around his palm. The tie was a new addition to his routine. For weeks he'd kept it hidden, unsure what to do with it. Late at night he'd pull it out to look at, to hold close to him, and in the morning he'd wake up with his fist closed around it, safely tucked underneath his pillow. It was a token. An ill-gotten treasure from the man he couldn't bear to look at anymore.

The first time Scout touched himself while thinking about the doctor was after waking from a dream. It was almost a memory, standing in the infirmary for some routine procedure, waiting for Medic to take care of him.

Medic came from behind him, silent and without a word, snaking his hands around Scout's front, running them over his chest, his waist, his stomach. He said nothing, only murmured soft little sounds in Scout's ear as he touched him. His hands were everywhere. On his arms and the tops of his thighs, fingers teasing at the hem of his boxers. Scout had awoken hard and shaking, quickly taking himself to hand and then lying awake for the rest of the night in shame and fear of what it meant. Of what, and _who_ , he wanted.

The shame had mostly gone away, though the fear hadn't. He blocked out what he could, learned to chase the pleasure while it lasted and deal with the consequences later. He couldn't look at Medic anymore. Couldn't meet his eyes across the breakfast table or call to him for aid in battle. He was sure his sudden change in demeanor hadn't gone unnoticed, but no one had brought it up. No one questioned why he suddenly shied away from the man who days earlier he'd been so eager to be around. Eager to please. Eager to touch.

Scout quickened his pace at the memory of Medic's hands on him, pushing him out of the way, broad palms firm against his chest. His mouth fell open into a silent cry, the texture of the tie against his hand lending a new edge to his pleasure. A new piece of the puzzle.

He bit down on his lip, breathing hard through his nose, back arcing off the mattress as he came. With his eyes closed, Scout could almost imagine that he wasn't alone.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to be normal on the battlefield.

He didn't have to think too much, for one thing. Not about important stuff, not about “personal reflection” or any of that bullshit. Run and shoot. Hit and jump. Jump and shoot and run. Simple shit. Easiest thing in the world. Scout didn't have to pretend to be anything other than himself, and he didn't have to worry about slipping up and say something stupid. No one was paying too much to attention to what was said on the field. They were too busy running and hitting and shooting, same as him.

All except Medic.

Medic ran. He ran a lot, almost as much as Scout himself, but their paths rarely crossed. Scout pushed forward and made life difficult for the enemies at the front of the line, and Medic either hung back or found himself a meat shield to hide behind and soak up the bullets while he fixed the damage. Seeing Medic in the thick of battle wasn't exactly a common thing. So when Scout did see him, it was hard not to take note.

Everything about Medic was sharp. His hairline, his profile, his squared, rigid shoulders. His brows were arched, his jaw broad and angular. His uniform was made up of starched, crisp lines and rows of perfectly straight stitches. His smile, always too wide, with too-white, too-sharp teeth had once been frightening to Scout. Now he couldn't get enough of it.

It was worth it, was Scout's first thought after waking up in Respawn. The blunt shovel that had caved in his skull moment earlier was a petty price to pay for being distracted. The flash of white had caught his eye, and he couldn't look away.

Across the battlefield, with fresh arterial spray splattered across his face and the front of his coat, Medic was laughing. He held his bone saw in one hand, and the newly severed limb of the screaming BLU Spy in the other. The Spy was staggering back, tripping over his own feet, and Scout felt himself die just as Medic swung the saw around for the finishing blow. He regained consciousness with that smile still on his mind. He remained in the Respawn Room, gasping and red faced, until another of his teammates began to materialize next to him. He didn't stay to see who it was. He just ran.

It was worse after the match, in the mess hall. All of them gathered around the table for dinner – with the notable exception of Spy and Sniper – recalling their personal contributions to the days victories.

Engineer was grumbling about the enemy Sniper while Soldier was giving a rousing commendation to Pyro for their conduct on the field. Demo was singing a now-familiar Scottish victory anthem, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen.

Scout tried to listen to what the hardhat was saying. Something about eyelines and “lanky, piss-throwin' bastards.” But at the end of the table, Heavy was speaking quickly and quietly in his fragmented English, and whatever he was saying was making Medic's smile widen by the second. It wasn't his battle smile. There was no blood on his teeth, or mania in his eyes. It was a laughing, easy smile that he made no attempt to hide, nodding enthusiastically along to whatever Heavy was saying to him.

Heavy paused, clearly for effect, and finished his story in a conspiratorial whisper. Medic's laughter was high and genuine, and to Scout it was more beautiful than the church bells that had woken him every morning until he was eighteen, clanging over his house and echoing down the grimy street on which he lived.

Medic's hand clapped over Heavy's forearm, catching himself as he threw his head back. Scout remembered suddenly, vividly, how soft Medic's hands were. How careful and precise and _strong_ he was. His own hands were burning at the memory of being held, at the fantasies of touch that he'd created nightly in his mind, and he felt the flush in his cheeks even before Engineer asked if he was feeling alright.

Scout looked away from the end of the table too late.

“Fine,” he snapped, flushed and caught. “What were you sayin' about the Spook?”

Engie leveled him with an even gaze, just as measured and piercing behind his goggles as it would have been if Scout could see his eyes. Scout realised his mistake immediately.

“I wasn't.”

Scout wanted to dissolve. He wanted to melt through his chair, through the floor, through the earth itself and fade out of existence. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted anything to be happening to him that didn't involve Engie looking at him the way he currently was. Scout's face was burning. He didn't trust himself to breathe without screaming.

The Engineer sighed, set his fork down, and put his hand on Scout's shoulder.

“Have you tried talkin' to him?”

Scout blinked.

“Huh?”

“I ain't blind, boy,” Engie said, his voice dropping. “And neither are the rest of us. Don't tell me you thought you were bein' subtle?”

Scout couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't believe this conversation was happening. In the mess hall, with other people around. With the fucking Engineer. He must be misunderstanding. It must be something else.

“W-what? What the fuck are you talkin' about?”

“Scout, every time the Doc looks at you, ya look about ready to take a runnin' leap into his arms.”

It wasn't about something else.

Scout's breath came out in a rush, and then he couldn't seem to get it back.

They knew. They all knew, all this time, he thought he was being so careful. He thought he was so fucking smart, but it didn't matter. The whole team, they knew, they knew what he was, they knew he was- was a-

“Hey, now, easy there,” Engie said, turning in his seat to scoot closer. “Just breathe, son, it's okay. Come on, deep breaths, no need to make a scene out of it. It's okay. You're alright here, nobody's gonna give you any trouble about it, don't you worry about that.”

Scout sucked in a nose full of air, trying to exhale slowly through his mouth like his brother had taught him. Engie still had a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, reassuringly. There was a gentle smile on his face, and in that moment Scout loved the man. He let out a shaky breath and tried to stop his hands from trembling.

“It's okay?” he asked. It wasn't what he meant to say. But it was the first thing out of his mouth, and his voice was too fucking high, he sounded like a little fucking kid and he hated it. The Engineer simply nodded, his face softening.

“'Course it is. Now, I won't pretend to understand what you see in our Medic, but you'll get no grief from me about it. I learned long ago that people are just the way they are, and there's nothing wrong or good or bad about it. That's just how it is. Ain't a thing to be ashamed of.”

Scout thought he might cry. He allowed himself a sniffle, just the one that he couldn't hide, and quickly ducked his head. There were still others in the room. And crying at dinner wasn't exactly commonplace. Engie was right. He didn't want to make a scene. He covered his embarrassment and relief by reaching for his cup.

“Does everybody know?”

Engie seemed to think for a moment.

“Well, I know. I'm fairly certain Spy knows, seein' as he knows everything about everyone. Claims to, anyway. Sniper was the first to bring it up, funny enough. Says he knew because of something about a bird?”

Scout flushed and choked on his water. Guess he hadn't been so smooth after all.

“Soldier don't know, that's fer sure. The man can't see outside his own helmet most days, and he still thinks we're all born and bred Americans here. As far as I'm concerned, it can stay that way. I can't speak for Pyro, but I can't imagine they'd mind. Demo don't care, so long as you do your job. He's an... _interesting_ feller if you sit down and talk to him. The only trouble you should get from Heavy is if ya keep messin' with his gun. He's not gonna warn you again, boy, of that much I'm sure. Don't touch it. And as for Medic...”

Scout held his breath. Engie rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“For such a smart man, he's really very stupid sometimes. I think he's about the only one who hasn't noticed a damn thing.”

A quick glance down the table, where Medic was now gesturing animatedly – gloves on, unfortunately – to an enraptured Heavy without so much as a glance in Scout's direction seemed to prove the point. Scout quickly looked away.

“But that- that's good, right?” he said, and Engie tilted his head questioningly. “I mean, he doesn't know that I – it's not just gonna be weird or anything, him knowin'. You're not gonna tell him, are you?”

“'Course I won't tell him. I don't wanna be the one to broach that particular subject, if you take my meaning. That's your job.”

“ _My_ job?” Scout asked, his voice coming out embarrassingly high. Across the room, Pyro – who had long since stopped paying attention to Soldier – swiveled their head around and looked over. Scout ducked down and his his face behind the salt and pepper shakers. Engie covered his snort with a polite cough.

“It's all on you, son,” he said, clapping Scout heavily on the shoulder as he stood up. “Good luck.”

Scout gaped after the Texan as he ambled toward the doorway. On his way out, he passed Spy on his way in. The two exchanged tight nods in passing.

Spy cleared his throat.

“ _Docteur_ ,” he called loudly, interrupting the fit of laughter Heavy and Medic had fallen into. Spy waited patiently while Medic collected himself. “The... _package_ you requested is waiting in your office.”

Medic sobered immediately. He was on his feet in a heartbeat and heading toward the door.

“Is it really?” he breathed excitedly, and even with his back turned Scout could tell he was smiling. “Did you have much trouble finding it?”

“ _Non_. Not as much as I expected. I suggest you see to it quickly, however. I believe it's perishable.”

“ _Ja_ , of course. I will go at once. _Danke_ , Herr Spy, you have outdone yourself.”

With a flap of his white coat, Medic was gone. Scout stared after him while trying to look like he wasn't staring.

It didn't work.

Spy caught his eye from across the room, raising an eyebrow as he lit himself a fresh cigarette. _Spy knows everything_ , Engie had said. And in that moment, Scout didn't doubt it. He quickly averted his gaze.

His hands were still shaking.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Scout found himself out in the training yard, battering baseballs against the corrugated iron backdrop Heavy had help him set up.

He wasn't really working on his swing. Maybe it looked like it from a distance, but Scout couldn't care less whether his aim was improving or not. But the rhythmic banging of the balls against the metal, like a little concentrated thunderclap, was all he needed to keep his mind clear.

He'd fallen asleep with another man's tie wrapped around his fist, and his first thought of the day had been to wonder if that man was awake yet. At breakfast, he'd kept to himself. During the day's match he'd tried to stay out of everyone's way, to keep himself from getting distracted, but he was ultimately unable. And at dinner, he'd been brought to the verge of tears by some kind words and a pat on the shoulder.

The bat cracked against the ball in a particularly vicious swing.

Scout's arm was starting to hurt. But it was nowhere near as uncomfortable as the thoughts swirling round in his head.

He wished he still thought it was fear.

He wished the way his stomach clenched and his throat tightened and his palms sweated around Medic were from something as simple and _safe_ as fear.

It was _wrong_.

It was sick that he was even thinking about this, no matter what Engie said. For all his life, all his teachers and his priest and his Ma had ever said was that it was wrong. It was unnatural, it was a sickness, an illness to be purged. They didn't mean no harm by it. _Love the sinner, hate the sin_. He'd heard that, too. Over and over, like they were two separate things that could be taken apart and viewed objectively. He knew it didn't work that like. And he knew, deep down he'd known it for years, that that was why his second oldest brother didn't come around for the holidays anymore.

Maybe it was genetic? Maybe it _was_ a sickness.

But Scout didn't feel sick.

He didn't feel like he had a fever, or that he was rotting from the inside out. If anything, he felt _better_. Better than he had in high school, laughing along with his friends when sat under the bleachers to look up girl's skirts, or when that girl from his math class put her hand on his leg under the desk. That never felt right to him.

Another vicious swing, the vibrations from the bat jolted painfully up his arm. The ball left a dent in the metal.

But the things that _did_ feel right, at least what he thought “right” was supposed to feel like, weren't any better. Medic touching him felt right. A fucking old ass man wrapping his arm around his shoulders felt better to Scout than any affection shown to him by a girl his own age. Medic smiling at him from across the room when he caught him staring, that was better than blown kisses or winks across a classroom. Medic binding his hands, trailing his fingers over the callouses on Scout's palms, that felt _good_.

Even looking at him felt good. Watching him fight felt _great_.

It was definitely the sick the way Scout felt when he caught sight of Medic with his medigun tucked away and his weapons out. It was sick that he could almost get off on that, on the fear, and the danger, and the _wrongness_ of what Medic did. Hacking guys to bits. Spilling guts and gore all over the battlefield. Doctors were supposed to take an oath, right? Something about “do no harm.” Well Medic must have missed class that day, because he did plenty of harm, and most of the time he did it with a grin on his face. He _liked_ it. And Scout liked that he liked it.

And that wasn't right. It couldn't be right.

But he also liked the other times, out of battle, when Medic wasn't being crazy.

He liked when Medic cooked, always something with meat and bread, and beamed when the table unanimously agreed that it was delicious. He liked watching the doctor tend to his birds. Carrying the little fuckers around on his shoulder, talking to them like he thought they could understand. Sneaking them crackers even though nobody was gonna tell him not to. It was sweet. It was like two different people, and Scout didn't know why but he liked them both. He liked the Medic that scared him, the laughing Medic with the blood-flecked teeth and the mad glint in his eyes. And he liked the Medic that played chess and stayed up too late reading books in a language Scout didn't understand, smiling tiredly when he was caught yawning or stretching during the day. And it was so fucking hard to understand, so fucking confusing to deal with, because Scout knew he shouldn't like either. He shouldn't be standing there thinking about this shit in the first place. It wasn't normal. Anybody could tell him that, and anybody _had_ told him that all his fucking life.

Scout felt the bat splinter and didn't have to look at it to know there would be a crack in the grain. He picked up another ball.

But if it's so wrong, and so sick and so bad and all that other shit, then why the fuck was he so _happy?_

Why did it feel so good?

Standing next to Medic, having their shoulders touch or their legs brush under the table, even something as little as that could make Scout giddy for the rest of the day. If the Doc looked at him from across the room it was like a fucking firework went off in his chest. And the dreams he was having – no, he didn't even wanna think about the dreams. Not out in the open. Not where he couldn't hide in the dark.

He wished he didn't know what he wanted.

The problem was that he _did._

When the bat finally cracked in two, Scout threw it unceremoniously into the dirt. He didn't bother to pick up the couple dozen baseballs that littered the yard, even though he knew he'd never hear the end of it from Soldier. He didn't have the temperament for clean up right now. There was something he needed to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Medic was at the back of the room, standing over the operating table with an expression of intense concentration on his face.

There was something on the table in front of him, a misshapen lump of lump and skin. Scout might have thought it was a side of ham if it wasn't trembling and bleeding profusely. He wondered, horrified, if this was the “package” that Spy had delivered. Medic swore in German as a heavy burst of arterial spray hit him in the chest.

Scout stared with his mouth hanging open.

Whatever Medic was doing, he didn't see fit to wear his gloves for it. His hands were bare, soaked to the elbow with thick, dark blood. It was dripping off the point of his wrist, slicked back into the hair on his arms. He was holding a scalpel in his right hand, his grip delicate despite the slippery circumstances, slicing carefully into the lump with a dark scowl on his face. There was an odd feeling settling in Scout's stomach.

Seeing Medic like this, in his element, blood-soaked and busy and deep in thought, that's what Scout liked. He liked the way the damp fabric clung to the doctor's chest, and the sheen on sweat on his brow. He liked the frown on his face, and the blood on his hands, and the way his hair wasn't out of place by a single strand. There was something about that detail, that slice of control amid the chaos that Scout liked in ways he shouldn't.

“What's the problem?” Medic asked sharply when he caught sight of Scout in the doorway, throwing down his scalpel and bustling over to him, the front of his shirt completely soaked with blood. Scout jumped. He'd been busy staring and getting lost in thought that he hadn't even realised Medic had seen him. Going back wasn't an option anymore. What little confidence Scout retained deflated like a popped balloon as the doctor approached, wiping his hands fruitlessly on his shirt. “Are you hurt? Sick?”

 _Yes_ , Scout almost shouted. _And it's your fault_.

Instead, he shook his head.

“N-No, I'm fine, I just–”

“Then get out.”

Medic's dismissal hit him like a slap to the face.

“What?”

“Perhaps you need me to check your ears, hm? I said get out, Scout, I don't have time to play nursemaid today. You know where the band aids are.”

The doctor's jovial mood at dinner seemed to have evaporated. He was already turning away, not even going to hear Scout out, heading back to whatever was hemorrhaging on the table in the back of the room. Scout took a deep breath, screwed his face into what he hoped was a look of a determination. If he backed out now, he'd never get here again.

“Doc, c'mon, I just wanna talk-”

“I am not a therapist, Herr Scout,” Medic snapped, shaking his hands, splattering heavy droplets of blood all over the polished cement floors. “I don't have the patience. You want to talk? Go find the Engineer. He at least will be polite enough to pretend to listen.”

Medic reached for a wicked looking instrument from his surgical tray. Scout, suddenly furious, grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, miraculously clean and dry, and jerked the doctor around to face him.

“Hey! I'm talkin' to you here, you fuckin' bastard!”

Medic rounded on him, and Scout fought the immediate instinct to run.

Medic looked _mad_.

Scout took a step back despite himself, but otherwise held his ground as the man advanced, drenched in blood with the darkest look Scout had ever seen on his face. He stopped right in front of Scout, glaring down at him, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

“You want my attention?” he said softly, with a high edge to his voice that Scout had come to associate with someone fucking up badly on the battlefield. Scout noticed too late the bone saw clutched tightly in his free hand. “ _You have it._ Twenty seconds, Scout, before I carve you up and pass you off as dinner. _Tic tock._ ”

Scout opened his mouth–

–And no sound came out.

All the words, all the carefully planned lines that he'd come up with on the walk down, all the little questions and feelings he'd been bottling up and figuring out had completely flown from his mind. He didn't know what to say. He stood there, gaping, watching the vein in Medic's forehead pulse progressively faster with each passing second of silence. He shifted, the bone saw glinting menacingly in the glare from the surgical lamp. Scout was running out of time. He was going to be dinner. So he did the only thing he had time for.

He grabbed the front of Medic's shirt with both hands, stepped forward, and kissed him.

It wasn't a graceful kiss. It wasn't even a _nice_ kiss. To be honest, Scout was just glad he hadn't missed. He could feel the blood on Medic's shirt soaking into his hand wraps, seeping under his fingernails. He could feel himself shaking. He could feel that neither of them was breathing. Most importantly, he could feel Medic's warm mouth against his own.

The bone saw clattered to the floor.

Scout pulled away, his moment of confidence shattered. He stepped back, terrified of the consequences for his actions. Scared that Medic would hit him, or yell at him, or – worst of all – laugh at him. He waited for Medic to pick up his saw, or something worse, and strike the killing blow. But the doctor just stood there. Staring at him.

“ _Warum hast du das getan?_ ”

Scout blinked.

“What?”

Medic put a hand to his mouth, leaving bloody fingerprints on his lips and chin.

“Why did you do that?” he asked again, in English. Scout swallowed, shrugging awkwardly.

“You gave me a time limit, Doc,” he offered, an attempt to lighten the tension. “I mean, I wanted to. But I panicked.”

“You wanted to kiss me?”

Scout sucked in a breath. Medic was still just standing there, eyes wide, his voice so soft that Scout almost had to strain to hear him. His earlier rage had melted away,

“W-Well, yeah, I did, but not- not like that, ya know? That's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about before you... um... killed me, I guess.”

Medic looked at the saw on the floor by his feet, then back to Scout. He looked slightly mystified.

“Oh.”

Scout almost laughed.

He would have, if Medic hadn't reached for him and yanked him forward, wrapping an arm around his back and crushing him to his chest, kissing him deeply. Scout's eyes widened.

There was an overwhelming rush of sensation. The stench of blood and sweat, the wetness of Medic's shirt seeping into his own, made warm by the heat of the man's body. The rasp of Medic's stubble on his chin and cheek. The taste of Medic in his mouth. Scout felt like he was drowning.

He clung to Medic for dear life, fingers clawing at his shirt, his hair, the back of his neck. Medic was holding him tightly, one large hand splayed over almost all of Scout's back, the other gripping his shoulder and burning into him like a brand. And it made it all worth it. The sneaking around, the getting hurt, the making an idiot out of himself. This was what it was all for. This was what he wanted,

Behind them, the thing on the table flatlined.

The sudden high, constant beep jarred Medic out of his ardour. He broke away suddenly, looking at Scout like he was surprised to see him there, then abruptly let him go. Scout nearly fell over, his legs were so weak beneath him.

Medic strode across the room and switched off the monitor. The resulting silence was deafening.

The doctor stood very still, keeping his back to Scout. Scout could see the wrinkles in his shirt, the bloody hand prints where he'd balled the material into his fist. The hair on the back of Medic's head was sticking up at all angles, more messy than Scout had ever seen it. His own handiwork. He did that.

“I'm sorry,” Medic said quietly, and Scout stared at him.

“Why?”

“I... I should not have done that. Grabbed you, that was – it was wrong of me.”

There was something about his voice that made Scout frown. He stepped forward, his shoes scuffing on the floor.

“Yeah, well, I guess I kinda started it,” he said. When Medic still didn't turn around, he added, “And I didn't exactly _mind_.”

The doctor continued to face away, but Scout could swear he saw his shoulders drop a little. If it was relief or something else, Scout couldn't tell. He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“So what happens now?” he asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. Medic inhaled sharply, drawing himself to his full height.

“Now, I have to clean this up,” he said, beginning to pull at and disconnect the wires and tubes feeding into the lump of flesh on the table. He took a moment to look at his hand, bloodsoaked as it was. Scout noticed it was shaking. Medic quickly lowered it. “As well as myself. This – the shirt is ruined.”

Scout couldn't stop looking at where Medic's hand had been. It felt as though a pit had opened up his stomach, trying to swallow him up from the inside out. He was on the edge of it, ready to fall in, but the thin strand of hope he'd been clinging to since he walked in refused to let him go. Tentatively, he took a step forward.

“W-what is that?” he asked, proud of his voice for not shaking. Medic took a swift step to the side, blocking the thing from view.

“Nothing. It's nothing. Simply an... and experiment. It doesn't matter now.”

He reached for the opposite edge of the table and pulled a dark, worn tarp over the thing. Scout caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared from view. He coughed, to cover the bile that rose in his throat.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, guiltily. “For –” _kissing you. Getting in the way. Making an ass out of myself._ “For distracting you.”

Medic didn't reply. His hands were resting on the operating table, palms down on the tarp, blood pooling in between his fingers. Scout wanted to say something else. He wanted _him_ to say something, anything, even if it was to shout and scream or tell him to never speak to him again. He wanted to laugh it off. He wanted to be told, as Engie had told him, that it was okay.

When Medic had remained silent for the entire eternity that ticked by. Scout gave up. He stepped back, then stepped again, and then turned around. He could feel the burning in his legs. The urge to run. One more step and he'd be in the clear.

“Scout.”

Scout's foot slipped on a small pool of blood in his haste to turn back around. He flailed for a moment before righting himself, looking back at Medic with wide eyes.

The doctor was facing him now, half turned, his arms hanging at his sides. His features had softened, but there was still a tightness around his eyes that Scout didn't know how to read. He smiled.

“I think I would like a distraction.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the final installment of the series. i may write more stuff that's connected to it, maybe? we'll see. unless otherwise stated, consider anything else i may write completely separate from this. sorry for taking so long to update. thanks for the comments and encouragement and support.


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